Water Spots
by Katica Locke
Summary: A series of short, unrelated fics with a wet theme, specifically of Finch with water on his glasses. Non-explicit slash, Rinch. Don't like, don't read.
1. Boardwalk

**Author's Note:** I've actually been sitting on these for a while now, hoping I'd get around to writing more of them, but seeing Finch all wet in the preview for 'Identity Crisis' convinced me to post before the site is overrun with Wet!Finch stories, lol. There are four total (right now, I may yet get around to writing a few more) and I'll try to post all of them before the new ep. comes on. Enjoy! ^_^

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><p>Standing in the meager shelter of a striped awning, Reese shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, his collar turned up against the gusting wind and the stinging rain. Leave it to Finch to insist upon a meeting in this weather. Reese had to assume it was important, some vital information in the case they were working, but why meet at the Boardwalk? It was practically deserted, only a handful of fishermen dangling their lines over the rail of the dock and a few hardy tourists snapping pictures of the churning gray Atlantic pounding the empty beach, but the library would have been just as secluded, and a whole lot warmer.<p>

An approaching figure caught Reese's attention, the relentlessly dapper Finch wrapped in a long brown coat, a black umbrella clutched tight in his hand as the wind fought to tear it from his grasp. He looked vaguely annoyed as he limped across the gray, weathered planks, perhaps regretting his choice of venue.

Reese stepped out from under the awning and ducked beneath the edge of the umbrella as Finch walked by, matching pace as they strode down the empty Boardwalk. "What have you got?" Reese asked, his voice low.

"You need to take the ferry to Staten Island," Finch said. "I've arranged a meeting with Mr. Richards; he thinks you're a hitman and I believe he wants you to kill his wife. He wouldn't go into specifics over the phone. I took the liberty of preparing a fake ID and putting together a portfolio of your work, if you will." He reached into his inside coat pocket for a small manila envelope, his attention wavering from the unruly umbrella, and the wind jerked it sideways, poking one of the metal ribs into the side of Reese's head.

Reese reached out, steadying the umbrella. "Why don't you let me hold this," he said.

"I've got it," Finch replied tersely as he held out the envelope. Reese took it, ducking just in time to avoid another collision with the umbrella.

"You're going to put an eye out with that thing," Reese teased, trying to take it out of Finch's hand.

"I said I've got it," Finch said, resisting. "Mr. Reese-" The wind gusted, blowing the rain sideways into their faces and ripping the umbrella from their hands. "Perfect," Finch grumbled as the umbrella went bouncing and wheeling down the Boardwalk. Reese hesitated only a second before taking off after it, wind and rain stinging his face, his shoes slapping against the wet wood, his coat flapping about his legs. The umbrella caught for a moment on a light pole before leaping free, up and over the railing. Reese lunged, arm outstretched, and fell heavily against the wooden rail, out of breath but victorious, the umbrella clutched tight in his fist.

A smattering of applause sounded from down the Boardwalk, a handful of people witnessing his rescue, and Reese couldn't stop himself from smiling and giving a theatrical bow before turning and jogging back to Finch, the umbrella over his shoulder. Finch stood, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, wind teasing his hair and raindrops clinging to his glasses, giving Reese a look that was simultaneously annoyed, long-suffering, and disapproving, but it couldn't mask the slight drawing in of his lips, one of the few tells Reese had been able to decipher. It was what he did when he was fighting not to smile.

Reese's gaze swept the empty Boardwalk behind Finch, then searched the empty beach, before darting to the empty windows of the nearby buildings. Except for the people behind him, they were alone. Stopping in front of Finch, Reese raised the umbrella, holding it over both of them.

"You have rain on your glasses," Reese said as Finch reached for it.

Finch stopped, a slight frown creasing his brow, but Reese just waited innocently; he had no tells. After a moment, Finch slipped one hand inside his coat for a handkerchief as he drew off his glasses, looking down at them as he wiped away the moisture.

"Finch?" Reese said, taking half a step toward him.

"Yes?" Finch raised his head, squinting myopically at Reese, as Reese let the umbrella fall back to his shoulder, blocking the view of any curious spectators at the far end of the Boardwalk. Before Finch could react, Reese leaned in and stole a kiss, a thrill racing through him at the touch of Finch's startled lips against his.

Finch jerked back, his eyes wide, his face turning red as he sputtered incoherently before seizing the umbrella and yanking it out of Reese's hand. "Mr. Reese, are you drunk?" he demanded.

Reese laughed. "Just keeping you on your toes, Finch," he said with a wink. "I'll call you when I get to Staten Island."


	2. Yacht

"I hate to say this, Mr. Reese," Finch said, looking around the cabin of the yacht as thick, acrid smoke seeped beneath the door and rose up into the air, hanging above their heads, "but we might be in trouble." They lay on the floor of the cabin, arms bound behind their backs and ankles tied, Reese bleeding from a gash in his forehead while the crackle and roar of the fire below filled the room. The floor was starting to get hot. Absently, Finch wondered if they'd cook to death, suffocate from the smoke, or be blown up when the fire reached the fuel tanks.

"I told you you didn't need to come with me," Reese said, sounding far too calm for the situation, and it stirred a momentary, irrational anger inside Finch. They were going to die, and he sounded like he couldn't care less. Then Reese sat up, the ropes falling away from his wrists, and he flashed a cheeky smile at Finch as he began to untie his own ankles. No wonder he didn't sound concerned.

"And let you have all the fun?" Finch replied as Reese freed him and helped him to his feet.

"Stay back and stay low," Reese said, moving toward the door. Finch pulled out his handkerchief and held it over his mouth and nose, crouching as low as his injury would let him, but it didn't stop the smoke from stinging his eyes and making his chest hurt. Reese touched the door and jerked his hand back. "This isn't good," he said, taking a step back. It was the only way out of the cabin, though.

Reese kicked the door, the lock shearing off a with a squeal of metal, and dropped to the floor as a ball of flame rushed into the room, licking along the ceiling as it consumed the oxygen. Reese scrambled to his feet, grabbing Finch by the arm and pulling him out into the narrow corridor, fire rippling over every surface, the carpet melted, the wood paneling blackened. Finch coughed, choking on the smoke, and followed Reese blindly.

At the stairs, Reese stopped and shoved Finch up first, the flames licking at the legs of his trousers as he hobbled up, the steps creaking and groaning beneath him. Finch emerged onto the deck, roiling black smoke pouring up into the sky all around him, making it impossible to see which direction the shore was. He stopped, waiting for Reese, and whipped around as a great groan and crash issued up from below deck. The stairs had collapsed.

Dropping to his knees, Finch leaned over the opening. "Reese? Are you all right?"

"I've been better," Reese replied, his voice rough and hoarse, strained by the smoke. "Get back." Finch shifted to the side as Reese grabbed the edge and hauled himself up, his face red and streaked with soot. He pulled his legs up, his shoes smoking, a large section of one leg of his pants singed black. He collapsed on deck, coughing and gasping for breath, but almost immediately shoving himself back to his feet and grabbing at Finch's arm.

"C'mon," he rasped. "Gotta get off this boat."

Finch followed him to the closest railing. "How far to shore?" he asked.

"Don't know," Reese said. "Just jump." Finch stepped up on the wooden rail, but hesitated. "Jump; now!" Reese shouted, and Finch felt a strong hand in the middle of his back.

"Wait," he said, but too late. Reese gave him a shove and he plunged through the smoke toward the water below, his body stiffening as he drew a desperate breath and grabbed on to his glasses. He hit the water feet-first, the impact sending a shock of pain up through his body and he cried out, a swarm of bubbles escaping as water filled his mouth. The cold water crushed in on him, his suit restricting his movement and weighing him down, making it feel like he was trying to swim though molasses. Panic filled his chest, a crushing blackness that wrapped around him, dragging him down-

A strong hand grabbed one flailing wrist, then the front of his shirt, and Finch reached out, clinging to the muscular arm. The pressure in his lungs was terrible, a burning ache that gnawed inside his chest and he couldn't stop the desperate gasp that rose up in his throat. Breath escaped and water rushed in. Darkness pulled him into a silent embrace.

The next thing Finch knew, someone was kissing him. He felt vaguely disconnected, no sounds, no smells, no sensations, other than the lips pressed against his. Then he felt air fill his mouth, sliding down his throat, trying to fill his lungs, but they were already full. He choked, gasped, and felt the lips withdraw. Hands rolled him onto his side, a hard thump against his back sending a flood of water spilling from between his lips. The peaceful quiet was shattered as he drew a rasping breath, coughed, and vomited seawater onto the sand, his body aching, shaking with cold. His chest hurt, his head hurt - everything hurt.

"Finch, are you all right?" Reese asked.

Slowly, Finch rolled himself back onto his back, his eyes fluttering open to a blue sky smudged with clouds of black smoke. He drew several more agonizing but much appreciated breaths, and nodded his head.

"Yes, Reese, I'm fine," he said, his voice thin and raspy, his throat feeling like he'd swallowed broken glass. He started to ask where they were and how they got there, but the words were unexpectedly stifled by Reese's lips against his own. Startled and confused, Finch placed a hand against Reese's chest, frowning as he pushed him away. "I'm breathing on my own now, Mr. Reese," Finch said. "You can cease the mouth-to-mouth." He thought he saw a flush under Reese's dark skin as Reese glanced away.

"Just making sure, Finch," Reese said as he helped Finch to his feet.


	3. Shower

Biting back an uncharacteristic whimper, Reese peeled off his bloody clothes and let them fall to the floor of the bathroom, his eyes hard and appraising as he examined his body in the mirror. He was one large bruise from his shoulder to his knee all down his left side, scrapes and abrasions on both forearms, over his ribs, and down his thigh, the dried blood smeared all across his skin. It hadn't been the first time he'd been hit by a car and it probably wouldn't be the last.

His steps stiff, he crossed the room to the shower and turned on the water, waiting impatiently for it to heat up. With the spray as hot as he could stand, Reese stepped into the tub and drew the curtain closed behind him, his breath hissing between his teeth as the spray seared away the blood and washed the open wounds. The water that poured off his body was dyed pink and he stared without really seeing as it swirled down the drain.

An unexpected sound snapped him back to attention and he tensed as the bathroom door opened and shut again. Silence filled the room. Most people would have asked, 'Who's there?', but Reese wasn't most people. He glanced around the shower, seizing a long-handled back-scrubbing brush, ready to wield it like a club, and reached for the curtain.

"John?"

Reese froze. "Finch?"

"Ah, you are in here," Finch said, and Reese heard his uneven footsteps come farther into the room.

"What are you doing here?" Reese asked, his body suddenly cold and shaking as the adrenaline bled out of him, leaving him spent and exhausted.

"I thought you might like some help with those injuries," Finch replied.

"Thank you, but I can manage."

"I know you _can_, Mr. Reese," Finch said, a hint of amusement in his tone, "but that doesn't mean you should have to. Now, how bad is it?"

"Well," Reese started, but before he could begin to describe the various scrapes and contusions, the shower curtain slid open and Finch stuck his head in, steam from the spray fogging up his glasses as he looked Reese over from head to toe. "Excuse me!" Reese said, reaching out to close the curtain again.

"Oh, please, it's nothing I haven't seen before," Finch said, refusing to be shooed away. "Where was the impact with the vehicle?"

Reese rolled his eyes and stifled a sigh as he turned his left side toward Finch for inspection, watching the reclusive billionaire's brows draw together in a frown as he studied the damage.

"You're lucky you weren't killed," Finch said, his voice quiet and somber.

"Tell me about it," Reese said. "Now, do you mind?" He flicked his fingers at Finch, spattering his glasses with fine drops of water. Finch tried to look indignant as he withdrew, but the little smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth kind of ruined the effect. Turning his aching body back into the water, Reese smiled even through the pain. He _could_ deal with this himself, but he was glad he didn't have to.


	4. Jacuzzi

Gritting his teeth, Finch limped across the hotel bathroom, the pain in his hip and back almost unbearable. Being knocked down by a fleeing criminal the previous night, coupled with the bitterly cold winter weather, had rendered him almost to the point of uselessness. He couldn't concentrate, he couldn't sit at the computer, and he could barely walk. He was seriously considering dipping into his supply of pain pills, which was only one option above asking Reese to shoot him.

Before succumbing to the mind-numbing fog of narcotics, Finch thought he'd try one last thing, had excused himself from the Library for a few hours, and had checked himself into a hotel, asking specifically for a room with a Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom. Now, he lowered himself into the churning water, the steam fogging up his glasses. He peeled them off and set them on the shelf beside the tub, then leaned back against the sloped wall of the Jacuzzi, letting the powerful jets work their magic on his tight and damaged muscles.

"Spa day at the office?"

Finch nearly jumped out of his skin, his arms flailing in the water as he sat up and grabbed for his glasses, turning to scowl at Reese through the drops of water that dotted the lenses. The operative stood in the doorway, shirtless and barefoot, with a towel wrapped around his waist.

"Mr. Reese," Finch gritted out through his teeth, "what the hell are you doing here? How did you find me? How did you get in here? What do you want?"

"I'm here because I'm worried about you," Reese said, walking into the room and taking a seat on the edge of the tub, his gaze intense as he looked down at Finch. Finch glanced down at himself to make sure the churning surface of the water obscured the view before frowning back up at Reese. "I feel bad for letting you get hurt. Again."

"It wasn't your fault," Finch said, his expression softening. Reese reached out, took his glasses, and dried the lenses on the corner of his towel before handing them back.

"Yes, it was. As for your other questions, I followed you here and I used that nifty little app you designed to open the electronic lock on the door. As for what I want...I want you to scoot forward."

"I beg your pardon?" Finch asked, but his eyes widened as Reese stood up, untucked his towel, and let it fall to the floor, revealing himself in all his God-given glory. Finch swallowed hard and looked away. "Mr. Reese, this is highly inappropriate."

"Oh, relax, Finch," Reese said, stepping into the Jacuzzi behind Finch and giving him no choice but to slide forward and make room. "I'm not going to molest you in the bathtub. I respect you too much for that." Reese sank down, his long legs stretched out on either side of Finch, the water gurgling as it poured out through the overflow drain. Finch sat for a moment, letting Reese get a good look at the scar on the back of his neck and hoping it would satisfy the operative's curiosity.

"Nice as this is," Finch said, his tone dry, voice strained, "I think I'll just-"

Reese caught him by the arm as he started to reach for his towel. "Give me five minutes, Harold," Reese said. "If I can't make you feel better, I'll leave you in peace."

"_Five_ minutes," Finch said with a pointed look at the clock to mark the time. Reese didn't intend to waste a second of it, apparently. His large, strong hands, fingers callused in strange places from the constant handling of various weapons, came to rest against Finch's shoulder blades. Finch didn't move. The heat from the bath had eased his pain a little, but he was by no means comfortable, and he anticipated mild to serious discomfort as a result of Reese's fumbling attempt to 'help'. He watched the second hand on the clock creep around the dial as Reese's hands moved up Finch's spine, his touch light and careful as he passed near the scar, exploring up into Finch's hairline, then sliding back down, beneath the water, all the way to the small of Finch's back.

Finch concentrated on keeping his breathing slow and even. Reese hadn't hurt him yet, and if pressed he'd have to admit that the soft touch was not unpleasant, but Reese had also not yet succeeded in making him feel better. Two minutes down, only three to go.

"Let me know if this hurts," Reese said, starting to work his way back up, his thumbs pressing and probing along Finch's rigid spine. Finch set his jaw, having no intention of doing any such thing, but when Reese's thumb dug into a particularly sore spot, he couldn't help but flinch. "Sorry, didn't see that bruise there," Reese said, continuing on. When he reached the scar on Finch's neck, his touch became feather-light, but he didn't stop the examination, and Finch gritted his teeth, not in pain, but in annoyance as Reese's fingers sought out the head of each long pin that held his spine together.

He was about to offer Reese a copy of his x-rays if the man would just get out of the tub now, when the hands withdrew. One settled on his shoulder and the other ghosted down his back to just below his shoulder blades. Using the heel of his hand, Reese applied firm, steady pressure to Finch's spine, the hand on his shoulder holding him still.

"How does that feel?" Reese asked.

"Fine," Finch replied.

"Now, don't be a hero, Harold," Reese said, shifting his hand half an inch south and repeating the action. This time, Finch gasped, his hands reflexively grabbing at something and finding Reese's knees. "Was that pain or pressure?" Reese asked, easing up a bit.

"Both," Finch said, his voice strained. His eyes darted to the clock. Forty-five more seconds. "It was a painful pressure."

"That's the spot, then," Reese said. "Deep breath, Finch."

"Mr. Reese, I-" He cried out as Reese pressed hard against his spine, the pain sharp, the sudden _pop_ audible, and the relief instantaneous. Finch sat, his whole body trembling as the pain went from a four and a half to a two. His neck still ached and the normal throbbing in his hip was still there, but the agony had ceased.

"Better?" Reese asked, his hand rubbing up and down over the spot.

"Much," Finch said with a sigh.

"So I guess that means I can stay," Reese said, and even though Finch couldn't see his face, he could hear the smirk in his voice.

"Yes, I suppose it does," Finch replied with mock annoyance. He hesitated, then leaned back against his operative's broad chest, letting his head rest on Reese's shoulder. For a moment, Reese didn't react, then slowly, as if afraid he'd spook Finch if he moved too fast, he wrapped his arms around the smaller man, his head tilting until his cheek rested against Finch's temple as an unspoken understanding passed between them.


	5. Warehouse

**Author's Note:** Thanks for all the reviews! Your support (and a kick-ass episode) inspired me to write a few more of these short fics. I'm even working on a High!Finch one, lol. I'll try to get them all finished and posted before the next episode, but I'm currently working on five fics at once *headdesk* so we'll see how it goes. I'm almost done with another chapter of Damaged (major cliffhanger - you're all going to hate me) and this crazy plotbunny is after me to write this totally bizarre AU crackfic, and I may not be able to resist. Anyway, enjoy! ^_^

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><p>Finch stared at the burning warehouse, a column of thick, black smoke rising up into the air, flames leaping into the sky. The roar of the fire was deafening, the heat licking his skin, the wind whipping the cold spray from the fire hoses into his face, the static in his ear filling him with a hollow emptiness. <em>Reese.<em>

It had been a routine reconnaissance mission, Reese looking around inside the empty warehouse while Finch hacked the local wireless security systems. Finch wasn't even going to come, but Reese threatened to pick up pizza for lunch if he didn't. Finch saw right through the ploy, of course, but as Reese's excuses to spend time together grew more frequent and transparent, Finch found himself caring less and less. It was nice to have someone to talk to, to share a meal with, to count on.

"_Jesus, Harold, it's a bomb_," Reese had said, chilling words that drew Finch back to Matt Duggan, to the bomb in the baby stroller, to the helpless panic that had filled him. He'd scrambled from the car, the echoing sound of gunfire piercing his skull, voices shouting, screams of pain, then static as the building exploded. He'd just stood there, staring, that unearthly crackle and hiss in his ear.

He'd known this would happen, he'd warned Reese from the very beginning. They were both living on borrowed time. But it wasn't supposed to happen like this, not yet, not now. They were supposed to have lunch. Finch blinked, the acrid smoke stinging his eyes, his vision blurred by the drops of water on his glasses, the wind cooling the warm tracks that rolled down his cheeks.

"Too bad we didn't bring marshmallows," rasped a familiar voice and Finch whipped around, his eyes widening at the sight of Reese limping toward him, his clothing in tatters, his coat smoking, and the side of his face red and blistered.

"John," Finch whispered, rushing over to help the man to the car. "John, thank God, I thought...I thought-"

"I can tell," Reese said, raising his hand to wipe at the tear tracks on Finch's face. Flustered, Finch pushed his hand away.

"Not now, I've got to get you to a hospital."

"You're right," Reese said as Finch opened the passenger's side door. "There'll always be time to talk about it later." He dropped down into the seat with a groan, having to physically lift his own leg into the car before leaning back against the headrest and closing his eyes. Finch stared at him, his words echoing in that hollow place in Finch's chest, reminding him of all the things he'd intended to tell Nathan 'later', of all the things he'd almost never gotten to tell Reese.

Finch leaned into the car, pressing his lips to Reese's, his hand cupping Reese's unburned cheek. He withdrew before Reese could even react, closing the door before he had a chance to speak. As he limped around the front of the car, his heart pounded and his mind raced, trying to calculate the possible outcomes of his rash decision. Sinking down into the driver's seat, he could feel Reese staring at him, but he deliberately avoided looking at him, peeling off his glasses and quickly drying the lenses on his handkerchief instead.

"Harold?" Reese said as Finch put his glasses back on. Finch hesitated, then glanced over at him. "Me, too."


	6. Reading Lounge

**Author's Note:** All right, so I couldn't help myself, I had to do High!Finch. This story contains spoilers for Ep. 1.18. Enjoy! ^_^

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><p>Reese gave Finch half an hour to get settled and fall asleep before he went to check on him, just to avoid further temptation. Because the prospect of talking to Finch in his altered state was tempting, but it also wasn't fair. Digging into Finch's background was one thing, having Fusco tail him, snooping around the library, trying to break into his computer - that was the operative trying to better understand the asset, but this...this felt like taking advantage of a friend. If Finch ever sat down and <em>talked<em> with him, he wanted it to be because Finch trusted him, not because the man was high as a kite.

He found Finch in one of the reading lounges, sprawled across the sofa, his blanket piled on the floor and an empty bottle of water lying beside him. With a small shake of his head, Reese picked up the blanket and reached for the bottle, but frowned as he realized the lid wasn't on it. Turning on the table lamp beside the couch, Reese stared down at his boss, drops of water clinging to the lenses of his glasses and the front of his shirt soaking wet.

"It was easier to keep Leila out of trouble," Reese muttered, loosening Finch's tie. The man woke with a start, blinking owlishly up at Reese before smiling, a broad, easy smile that made Reese unexpectedly angry and sad for reasons he couldn't explain. Shrugging it off, he reached down and took Finch's arm, helping the man sit up. "Looks like you had a little mishap," Reese said.

"I'm wet," Finch observed, making no move to assist as Reese removed his tie and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. "Was it the sprinklers again?"

"No, I think a bottle of water just got away from you."

"Oh," Finch said, nodding. He let Reese peel off the waistcoat, then leaned back against sofa and stared up at the ceiling as Reese worked on unbuttoning his shirt. "Do you know what?"

Reese hesitated. "No...What?"

"I've missed you."

There was something so sweet and innocent and heartfelt in those simple words, Reese found himself struggling not to be angry at the man. What the hell was wrong with him? "I wasn't gone that long," Reese said, unbuttoning Finch's cuffs before untucking his shirt from his trousers. He worked the shirt off and hung it over the back of a nearby chair to dry before considering Finch's undershirt. It was wet down the front, too, but Reese imagined Finch would be offended as hell that Reese had undressed him as much as he had; the shirt would dry. But apparently Finch had a different opinion. He raised his arms in the air and looked up at Reese, waiting.

"You sure?" Reese asked.

"Mmm-hmm," Finch responded, that big, stoned smile on his face again as Reese peeled the shirt off, resisting the urge to examine him for clues to his injuries.

"All right," Reese said, reaching for the blanket. "Lie down and go back to sleep." He started as Finch caught his hand, staring at it like he'd never seen one before.

"Wow," Finch breathed. "I forgot what big hands your have. Big hands, big feet, big-" He giggled and rolled his eyes upward, his smile taking on a mischievous quality. "I remember what that means." And to Reese's surprise, he lay back on the sofa, trying to draw Reese down with him.

Reese gently extricated his hand from Finch's. "You need to sleep now, Harold."

"Oh..." Finch pouted. "What's wrong? You've never said no to me before."

Reese frowned. "I'm starting to think you have me mistaken for someone else. It's Reese. It's John."

"John?" Finch struggled to sit up, squinting up at him. Then his eyes widened. "Oh! John! How are you?"

"Fine, Finch."

"I feel really strange," Finch said, "but...I think I like it. You should try it sometime; you need to smile more. Oh, do you know what I read?" He leaned closer, lowering his voice to an exaggerated whisper. "MDMA makes sex a-_may_-zing, like _whoa_. Is that true?"

"I don't know," Reese said, rubbing at his temple to try to ward off the headache he could feel coming, "and I don't think you're going to find out tonight. Just go to sleep."

"Oh, c'mon," Finch said, pushing himself up off the sofa, "I may look like a genius billionaire recluse, but in bed I'm an animal, like a wildebeest...or a marmoset. _Rawr._"

Reese could only stare at him. Finch was going to have an aneurysm in the morning when he remembered this, _if_ he remembered this...Reese didn't know if tripping on Ecstasy resulted in blackouts, but one could hope. Finch suddenly glanced down, fingers fumbling with his belt, and Reese reacted quickly, reaching out and placing a hand over both of Finch's to stop him.

"Let's leave that alone, shall we?" he said.

Finch looked up at him, the lamplight sparkling in the tiny drops of water still clinging to the lenses of his glasses. "Why? Don't you want me?"

Reese sighed and reached up, plucking Finch's glasses off his face and drying the lenses on his coat before gently settling them back in place. "Harold, I want you to listen to me very carefully. The E in your system is making you do and say things that are going to make you very upset in the morning, and I don't want you mad at me because I let you do something I knew you shouldn't be doing."

"I could never get mad at you; you're my friend," Finch said, stirring up that irrational anger again. Reese forced a smile.

"You're my friend, too, which is why I want to do what's best for you. I know it's hard, but you need to trust me."

"Okay," Finch said with another of those sweet smiles. Reese took his arm and helped him back down onto the couch, spreading the blanket out over him and tucking it in around his bare feet.

"Now get some sleep," Reese said, turning off the table lamp and heading for the door.

"No kiss goodnight?"

Reese stopped, closed his eyes, and wondered if Finch would forgive him if he knocked him unconscious. Probably. He glanced back. "If I do, you have to promise me you'll stop talking and close your eyes. Can you do that?"

"Cross my heart," Finch said with exaggerated solemnity as he drew an X on his chest. Reese stepped back over to the couch, leaned down, and placed a quick kiss on Finch's forehead. "Oh, not like that," Finch pouted. "Right here." He pursed his lips.

"I deserve a raise for this," Reese muttered, leaning back down and pressing a chaste kiss to Finch's lips. He was surprised by the hand that caught him by the back of the neck, sliding up into his hair, enough so that he didn't pull back when Finch deepened the kiss, soft lips parting, coaxing his mouth open, a skilled tongue stroking his. When Finch finally let go and drew back, Reese was dazed and out of breath. He just stood there as Finch settled himself more comfortably on the sofa and pulled the blanket up to his chin.

"Goodnight, John," Finch murmured, his eyes closed.

"Goodnight, Harold." Reese walked to the door, where he stood and stared in at Finch for several long minutes. Suddenly, his anger didn't seem so irrational. It wasn't fair that it took a mind-altering substance to get Finch to trust him, or to admit that they were friends, or to- He reached up, brushing his fingertips against his lips, the memory of Finch's kiss lingering. Who knew?

"Hey...Finch?" he said, his voice soft, not wanting to wake the other man if he was finally asleep. He didn't get a response, but that didn't stop him. "Just in case you do remember this tomorrow, and just in case that wasn't just the drugs...I wouldn't say no if you wanted to kiss me again sometime." He waited for a heartbeat or two, the silence punctuated by a soft snore. With a sigh, he stepped out into the hall and pulled the door closed behind him.

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><p><strong>AN 2:** This whole story was written so I could use the 'I'm an animal in bed, like a wildebeest or a marmoset' line. Not sure what put that in my head, but I could hear Finch drawling it out like he does - maarrrrmoset - and I had to use it. But then, I have a rather strange sense of humor. ^_^


	7. Junkyard

"Harold?"

Finch blinked, his ears ringing, the rain sheeting down around him, drumming on rusted roofs and dented hoods, a sharp gust whipping the stinging drops into his face, moaning through broken windows. When had it started raining? He looked down at the body on the ground in front of him, skin ashen, eyes wide and staring. He looked familiar.

"Harold, are you all right?"

Finch turned, peering through the water drops on his glasses as Reese approached, his hair slicked down, his clothes soaked. What were they doing in the rain?

"You're in shock," Reese said quietly, reaching out toward him. Finch let him take the gun, his hands suddenly cold and empty without the weight of the weapon. What was he doing with a gun? He hated guns. He looked down at the body again. Agent Snow.

Finch drew a sharp, shaking breath and took a step back, his injured leg almost buckling beneath him. Reese caught him, holding him up.

"It's all right," Reese said, turning him bodily and leading him away, through the maze of wrecked cars. "You didn't have any choice."

"I...I shot him..." Finch whispered, the memories crushing in on him, making it hard to breathe. Snow had surprised them, Reese leading him away, letting Finch make it back to the car. He knew Reese kept an extra gun under the seat. He'd grabbed it, he'd gone back to provide a distraction, to let Reese escape. Snow had Reese trapped in the wrecking yard, pinned down, out of ammunition. Snow had smiled, gloating, and Reese had just stared back, hopeless and resigned. Finch remembered raising the gun, releasing the safety, squeezing the trigger...

He stumbled, pulling away from Reese as he fell to his hands and knees and vomited on the ground, his whole body shaking. A hand touched his shoulder and he flinched.

"Come on, Finch," Reese said softly. Finch let Reese pull him to his feet and help him into the back seat of the car. He didn't notice that Reese had climbed in with him until he heard the door close and looked over at the man seated beside him. Reese shrugged out of his coat, using the inside to wipe his face and towel the rain from his hair. Finch supposed he ought to do the same, cold water trickling down his neck and under his collar, but he couldn't make himself move. Shock. Reese had said he was in shock. That was probably a fair assessment.

Finch tensed as Reese leaned toward him, large, sure hands carefully working his wet suit jacket off. "I killed him..." Finch stared past Reese, out the tinted window, at the body lying in the rain. A warm hand pressed against his cheek, drawing his attention back inside the car.

"You saved my life," Reese said, "and I'm sorry that you had to. Harold, I'm so sorry. I never wanted you to know what this felt like." His hand lingered on Finch's face for a moment, long enough that Finch missed it when it was suddenly gone. "Here, my coat is a little dryer than yours," Reese said, settling it around Finch's shoulders. "You need to stay warm until we get back to the library." Reese gently took his glasses, dried the lenses on the sleeve of his shirt, and carefully placed them back on Finch's face. He started to open the door and an irrational panic filled Finch's chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Don't go," he said, grabbing Reese arm.

Reese turned back. "Somebody's got to drive the car, Finch," he said softly.

Finch swallowed hard, a sour, metallic taste in his mouth, and nodded. "I know, I just...don't leave yet."

Reese nodded his head and closed the door again. For a moment, they just stared at each other. It was Finch who reached out first, just extending his fingers toward Reese, his arm barely moving, but Reese's sharp eyes missed nothing and he grasped Finch's hand, holding it tight. Neither said a word as Finch leaned against Reese, the shaking inside him easing as Reese draped an arm lightly around his shoulders.


	8. Library

**Author's Note:** Hopefully, posting this will make the previous chapter/story show up. Of course, maybe neither of them will.

Anyway, I'm just about out of ideas for these things. I have one more story after this one, which I'll post tomorrow before the new episode. I'll probably post the next chapter of _Damaged_ on Friday, and if anyone is interested in reading the first chapter of my crackfic, it's posted over at Archive of Our Own under the title _Be Careful What You Wish For_. I'll post it here eventually, but if you want to read it now, it's over there.

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><p>Reese stood in front of the cracked window inside the library, half a cup of lukewarm coffee in his hand, staring at the pictures taped to the glass, testing the nebulous connections he'd made between these seemingly random people. His theories appeared sound, but he'd need to run them by Finch before he accepted them. And speaking of Finch...Reese glanced at his watch as the sound of the exterior door closing echoed down the long, cement hallways.<p>

Turning away from the board, Reese took a sip of his coffee, made a face, and tossed it into the trash. "It's about time you got here," Reese said, his voice raised as he teased the usually punctual man. "Did you have a late night?" He walked over to Finch's workstation and turned on all the monitors for him as the slow, uneven footsteps drew near.

"That's really none of your business, Mr. Reese," Finch said and Reese smiled to himself. "If you must know, there was construction on Central Park West and I decided that it would be faster to walk."

"But, it's raining," Reese said, frowning as he turned around. Limping into the room, a bedraggled Finch dripped water onto the floor as he glowered at Reese over fogged-up glasses.

"It wasn't twenty minutes ago," Finch said. Reese pressed his lips tightly together, trying not to laugh, but it wasn't working. "This isn't funny," Finch said, a warning in his tone. "I'm soaked to the skin."

"Oh," Reese said, suddenly sobering. "No, that's not funny at all." Finch gave him a wary glance as Reese stepped around the big table and walked toward him, suddenly noticing how his wet clothes clung to his body, the lenses of his glasses dotted with droplets of water, his breathing heavy and his skin flushed.

"What are you doing?" Finch asked, taking a step back as Reese approached.

"You need to get out of those clothes before you catch a chill," Reese said, his voice soft. He reached for the buttons of Finch's suit jacket, but Finch pushed his hand away.

"Mr. Reese, what have I told you-"

Reese cupped the back of Finch's neck with one large, strong hand, his fingers sliding into the wet hair as he silenced the smaller man with a fierce kiss, pressing his body against Finch's. He could feel the water from Finch's clothes soaking into his shirt and slacks, but he didn't care.

After a moment, Finch drew back, completely flustered and out of breath. "John! I told you, not at the library. This is where we work-"

"Oh, shut up, Finch," Reese murmured, leaning down and capturing the man's lips again. Finch resisted for another moment, his body stiff and unyielding, before surrendering with a groan.


	9. Limousine

Rain sheeted down in the streetlights, pounding on the roof of the car as Finch instructed his driver to pull over and draw up alongside of the miserable figure hurrying down the empty street, his shoulders hunched and his dark hair plastered to his skull. Finch rolled down the back window, stinging drops of rain gusting in and spattering his glasses.

"Need a ride, Mr. Reese?" he called.

Reese stopped, a genuine look of surprise on his somber face, and then he glanced warily up and down the street before stepping over to the car. "Evening, Finch," Reese said, his gaze still sweeping the dark, wet facades of the nearby buildings. "Do you really want to risk someone seeing us together? People might talk."

"The windows are tinted; no one is going to see us," Finch said dryly, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and drying the lenses of his glasses. He gave a slight nod to the other side of the car as he put them back on and started to roll his window back up. "Just get in." Through the darkened glass, he watched Reese linger beside the vehicle for a moment before making up his mind and striding around behind the car. He climbed into the back, casting a darting glance at Finch as he sank into the heated leather seats.

"This is going to ruin your upholstery," Reese said, running a hand back through his sopping hair, fat drops splashing onto the leather.

"It's a rental," Finch said, catching the driver's eye in the rear-view mirror and motioning for him move on. "Where can I drop you off?" Reese gave the address of a hotel a dozen blocks away, the seventh one Reese had stayed in since they had started working together. That was good. It was hazardous to become too comfortable with a place, or too familiar to the people there. Finch himself was little more than a ghost in his own home, hardly ever there and rarely seen when he was.

"Take the long way," Finch instructed the driver, turning stiffly to Reese as he started raising the privacy screen. "Running into you has saved me a call - we have business to discuss." He waited until the screen was firmly in place, then reached up and loosened his tie. That small act seemed to take Reese by surprise.

"Is there another number?" he asked, his voice soft and low, and Finch had to wonder if the man had any idea of the indecent thoughts that voice inspired.

"No," Finch said. "That was for his benefit. What I wish to talk to you about is much more...personal in nature."

"I see," Reese said, shifting ever so slightly forward in his seat, like a leopard about to spring. His gaze darted toward the car door and Finch preemptively reached over to the control panel and pressed the button to lock the doors. That shifted Reese's attention back to him, where he wanted it.

"I think you know what I want, Mr. Reese," Finch said, "and I'm sure you can imagine my displeasure if I don't get it."

Reese leaned back in his seat, deliberately casual and about as relaxed as a coiled viper. "Something tells me you're a man who doesn't hear _No_ very often." They sat regarding each other for several long moments, Reese's index finger gliding back and forth along his lower lip. "Well?" he asked finally.

"On your knees," Finch said, shifting his feet and pointing to the floor between them. "And take off your jacket," he added as Reese moved to obey. With his wet shirt plastered to his strong, broad chest, Reese knelt before Finch. His heart pounding, Finch sat forward, running his hands back through Reese's hair, gathering a handful at the nape of his neck and forcing his head back, exposing that smooth, tanned throat. Reese swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

Finch leaned close, his breath raising goose bumps along Reese neck, and brushed his lips along Reese's jaw, the wet skin chilled. Sliding his hands down to Reese's chest, Finch began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Oh, just rip it open," Reese murmured, placing his hands on Finch's knees, his fingertips creeping toward Finch's inner thighs.

"It's a perfectly good shirt," Finch replied, his gaze darting up to meet Reese's eyes. "I already feel ridiculous enough as it is."

"Oh, but I like this side of you," Reese said with a smirk. "I think we need to find you a black leather bodysuit and a whip."

"Don't you dare," Finch said, trying to smother a laugh. Reese closed the distance between them and Finch groaned as they kissed, Reese's large, chilled hands pulling at his clothes, sliding up under his shirt, grasping and caressing, his touch filled with need and desire and sweet, gentle passion.

The intercom crackled to life, the driver's voice tinny through the speakers. "We're here, sir."

Reese groaned, wrapping his arms around Finch's body and drawing him close. "Come up to my room, please. Just this once."

"I can't," Finch said, running his fingers back through Reese's hair again. God, he loved doing that. But the rules were there for their own protection. They couldn't be seen together. Finch drew a steadying breath and reached over, pressing the intercom button. "This is going to take longer than anticipated," he said, combing his fingertips through the distinguished silver at Reese's temple. "Go ahead and drive around for a bit more...maybe out to Brooklyn and back."

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Okay, this is the last of these for a while. I'll try to get a few more written before the next new episode in two weeks (next week is _Number Crunch_ again, I think), since I have new ideas thanks to SeveRemus! More _Damaged_ tomorrow! ^_^ Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	10. Dinner

**Author's Note:** If you like this story, thanks go to SeveRemus for the idea, and if you don't, blame goes to me. ^_^ Look for another short on Thursday!

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><p>Reese made his way up the stairs and through the maze of corridors, pizza box balanced on one hand and a two-liter of soda in the other. It was near midnight and he was starving, having eaten nothing but protein bars for the past three days while staking out the most recent number. With that taken care of, he should have been looking forward to a hot meal and a few hours to relax, but he wasn't. As he neared the hub, he prepared himself for the worst.<p>

"I hope you're hungry, Finch," he said, stepping into the room. Finch sat behind his computer monitors, his jacket hanging on the coat rack, his cuffs unbuttoned and sleeves rolled up.

"I'm famished," Finch replied, finishing whatever he was doing on the computer before glancing up, a frown creasing his brow. "What the hell is that? Pizza?"

"That Chinese place you like moved uptown last week. There was an open pizza place across the street and I didn't feel like walking an extra thirty-seven blocks."

"No, of course not," Finch said with a sigh. "That's all right. Go ahead and set it down; I'll find us some plates."

"What for? It's pizza," Reese said with a chuckle.

"It's _food_, Mr. Reese," Finch said, giving him a dry look, "and _food_ should be eaten off plates whenever possible."

"Fine, get plates," Reese said, setting the box and the soda down on Finch's table. He was too tired to argue with the fussy man.

"What kind of pizza is it?" Finch asked from the other room.

"Pepperoni, extra cheese, tomato, green pepper, and black olives on my-"

"I don't like ol-"

"That's why they're only on my half," Reese said, rolling his eyes as he headed for the bathroom to relieve himself and wash up. He was rinsing the soap from his hands when Finch's voice came drifting in through the mostly closed door.

"What the hell happened to this pizza? Most of the toppings are stuck to the lid of the box."

"That was my fault," Reese said, shutting off the water and grabbing a hand towel off the rack. "I was uptown a few blocks and I saw a homeless man crossing the street, just as some asshole in a sports car decided to run the red light. I had to drop everything to pull the guy out of the way before he got killed. So you might want to wait a while to open that soda," he added as he opened the bathroom door and stepped out, stopping short at the sight of Finch holding the open soda bottle, the sticky liquid running down his face and neck, crystal droplets clinging to the lenses of his glasses.

"Just for future reference," Finch said, setting the bottle down and pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket, "you might want to begin such a story with '_Don't open the soda because_...' instead of saving it for the end."

"Sorry, Harold," Reese said, reaching back into the bathroom and grabbing a clean towel off the rack. He walked over as Finch removed his glasses and cleaned them off on his handkerchief. "Here, let me help you with that," he said, setting the towel down on the table and leaning close, his tongue darting out to lick away a drop of soda dangling from Finch's earlobe.

Finch drew a sharp breath as though burned, his entire body stiffening. For a moment he just stood there, then he returned to wiping off his glasses, a slight flush coloring his face. Reese waited, looking for a sign, not sure how his advances would be tolerated. Finally, Finch set his glasses down on the table and reached up to loosen his tie.

"Finished helping already, Mr. Reese?"

Reese smiled. "Not even close."


	11. Sidewalk

**Author's Note:** Yay! It's Thursday! Or as I like to call it, POI-day. ^_^ I can't wait for tonight's episode!

And on a more serious note, I would like to sincerely apologize to the kind reviewer and to anyone that I may have offended in the previous story with the Chinese restaurant/alley cat joke. I actually borrowed that line from the movie _Scrooged_ and used it without thinking about the cultural implications. I changed the line and would like to thank the anonymous reviewer for letting me know.

Here's the next story, I hope you all enjoy! I should have another up next Monday. ^_^

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><p>The morning sun shone down through a rather thin layer of haze, glinting off the buildings and warming Finch's body even better than the tea in his hand. He sipped the hot drink as he limped along, not even minding the constant ache in his hip on such a rare nice day this early in the spring. The trees in Central Park hadn't even started putting on leaves yet, but the birds in their branches warbled as though it were almost summer, loud enough to be heard over the rumble of traffic on the street beside him.<p>

"No, I need that meeting pushed back to two o'clock, damn it."

Finch glanced at the man walking toward him, annoyed. He was tall, middle-aged, but with deep frown lines, talking loudly on his cell phone as he strode purposefully along as though oblivious to everything else around him. People like that tended to walk out into traffic and get hit by cars. His lips quirked and he chided himself, quickly raising his cup of tea and taking a sip to mask his amusement at the thought.

A young blonde woman heading the same direction as Finch walked past him, her heels clicking on the sidewalk as she hurried by. The loud man twisted his upper body around to watch her walk past, but he never slowed his own pace. Finch stepped aside to avoid him, just as the man turned back, the movement sending him veering off course. The tall man's arm slammed into Finch's shoulder, knocking him back a step and splashing the tea all over his face and down the front of his shirt.

"Excuse me," Finch said, biting back the angry retort that first came to mind. The tea had cooled enough that he hadn't been scalded, and he didn't want to cause a scene on a public sidewalk. Bad enough that people were staring at him, green tea dripping from his nose and chin, drops of the liquid clinging to the lenses of his glasses.

The man with the phone glanced down at the sleeve of his suit jacket, a couple of small, dark spots on the pale gray fabric, and turned back, a scowl on his face. "Watch where you're going, damned gimp." Finch just stared at him as he walked away. "No, some fucking cripple staggered into me," he said into his phone. Finch felt his face turn red as he dug into his pocket for his handkerchief. He glanced after the man again, just as a dark blur came flying out of the park.

Reese grabbed the man by the back of his jacket and slammed him face down on the hood of a parked car, the cell flying out of his hand and bouncing into the street. "The hell!" the man shouted, but Reese pulled the badge from that dead detective out of his pocket and shoved it into the man's face.

"Were you aware that verbally abusing the disabled is considered a hate crime in New York? That makes it a felony with a minimum five year sentence."

"I- I had no idea," the man stuttered. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't tell me, tell him," Reese said, jerking the man up off the car and shoving him down to his knees on the sidewalk. Finch stood, frozen in shock.

"I'm sorry," the man said again. "I'm so sorry. It was all my fault; I wasn't watching where I was going."

"That's all right," Finch said, recovering enough to give Reese a stern look. This was worse than the scene he'd been trying to avoid, a crowd starting to gather around them. But Reese wasn't finished yet.

"Now apologize for calling him a gimp and a cripple or I'll give you a matching limp."

"Really, officer, that's not necessary," Finch said, hurrying over while the man still had both his kneecaps.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," the man said.

"Damn right," Reese said, letting him go and stepping away. "Now get out of here while I'm still in a forgiving mood." The man scrambled to his feet and rushed off, leaving his phone to lie in the street beside the parked car. "Are you all right?" Reese asked, stepping over to Finch and taking the handkerchief out of his hand.

"Fine, Mr. Reese," Finch said, stiffening as Reese wiped the tea from his face and neck. "That was completely unnecessary, you know."

"I disagree," Reese replied, taking his glasses and drying them on a corner of the handkerchief. "No one has the right to treat anyone like that, and especially not you, not as long as I'm around."

"Good thing you were _conveniently_ taking a walk in the park this morning, then."

"Okay, so I was following you," Reese said with a shrug, handing Finch his glasses back. "Sue me. Now, let's get to the library so you can change-"

"It'll dry," Finch said, tossing the nearly empty paper cup in his hand into a nearby trash can. "I'm going to finish my walk. You can either return to skulking in the bushes, or you can walk with me. It's up to you." He continued on his way, smiling softly to himself as Reese fell into step beside him a moment later.


	12. Park

Summer had finally arrived, which meant short nights with less darkness to skulk around in, sweltering days being broiled alive in his car while on surveillance, and about ten million children with no school to go to. Reese liked kids...in moderation, but this many, running willy-nilly through the park, laughing and shrieking, was an operative's worst nightmare, as chaotic as a hurricane.

He stood by the fountain, waiting for Finch to arrive and watching two dozen or so elementary-aged boys and girls splashing around in the sparkling water. At least these were being supervised by a parent or baby-sitter, unlike the teens and tweens running riot through the trees and bushes across the wide lawn. And speaking of the parents...Reese was getting some uneasy and outright hostile looks from young mothers. Then he realized how he might look, a single man watching someone else's children. He turned and walked several feet away, attempting to _not_ look like a prowling pedophile.

Finally, Finch arrived, limping up in his three piece suit, just the sight of him making Reese sweat. "How can you wear that?" Reese asked. "It's a wonder you don't pass out from heat exhaustion."

"You concern is touching," Finch replied dryly, handing over a stack of plastic cards - fresh IDs and credit cards. "I believe this is what you asked for."

"Thanks," Reese said, tucking them into his back pocket. "Have you found out anything more about Mr. Nelson?"

"I discovered some interesting information, but nothing to indicate why his number came up. It seems he was born in Idaho and his parents divorced when he was seven. His father-"

"I don't suppose we could walk and talk at the same time," Reese said. "I keep getting the evil-eye from those women over there who think I'm here watching their kids."

"Oh?" Finch said, turning stiffly to look. "I see. Yes, of course." They headed away from the fountain, into the subtly cooler shade of the nearby oak and elm trees lining the meandering paths, Finch rattling on about the fairly hum-drum early life of the mysterious Mr. Nelson.

Suddenly, a teenage boy came crashing through the bushes and raced past, the back of his T-shirt soaking wet. "Take that, you coward!" came a shout in the direction the boy had come from and Reese's instincts kicked into gear. He ducked, just as something pink and round, the size of a grapefruit, came flying through the air. He heard Finch gasp and felt drops of water splash onto his arm and neck. The bushes rustled again and Reese's arm reflexively moved toward the gun tucked into the waistband of his slacks, but stopped before he pulled his gun on the ten or twelve year old boy that came running out. The kid skidded to a halt so fast he nearly wound up on his butt, his face going white as a sheet, his dark eyes as big as saucers as he stared up at Reese and Finch.

"Oh, shit, Mister, I'm sorry," he said, and Reese followed his gaze to Finch, the remains of a pink water balloon dangling from the corner of his glasses. He was dripping in the middle of the path, his suit soaked down the front, his hair plastered to his head, water drops clinging to the lenses of his glasses, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Reese snorted, choking back a laugh and earning himself a dirty look from his boss. After a moment, Finch reached up and removed the broken latex balloon from his glasses, holding it out to the kid, whose hand trembled as he reached out to take it.

"I'm really, really sorry - I didn't see you, honest," the boy said.

"Apology accepted," Finch said, not sounding nearly as mad as he looked. "Be more careful next time."

"I will. I'm sorry," he said again as he turned and hurried off.

Finch glanced over at Reese, who fought in vain to wipe the smirk off his face. Reese arched an eyebrow as Finch turned abruptly and began hobbling after the boy. "Young man, wait a second," he said. The kid looked back, seemed to think about making a run for it, and then walked apprehensively back to Finch. Finch leaned down and said something quietly, to which the kid nodded. Then Finch reached into his pocket and pulled out a crisp bill of uncertain denomination, but it looked like a twenty. Reese started to turn on his earpiece so he could hear what being said through Finch's cell microphone, but just then Finch handed over the money and the kid turned and ran off.

"What was that about?" Reese asked when Finch returned.

"A private matter," Finch replied, pulling out his handkerchief and drying his glasses and face. "Now, where was I? Oh, right - So, after dropping out of college, Mr. Nelson took a job at an aluminum recycling center..." They continued walking, and Reese tried to listen, just in case some seemingly innocuous detail proved to be the key to unraveling this mystery, but he kept hearing things, whispers, footsteps in the bushes, and he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched.

"We should get out of here," he said quietly, interrupting Finch, though he wasn't sure what the man had been saying. "Something isn't right."

"Ah, those killer instincts," Finch said, and something in his tone made Reese pause. "I couldn't help but notice how quickly you ducked when the attack came, but couldn't manage one word of warning to me."

"Finch, it was a kid with a water balloon," Reese said, glancing over his shoulder as the bushes rustled and said kid appeared, carrying a fresh balloon in each hand. "It's not like it was a drug dealer with an assault rifle."

"And I'm sure you could tell the difference just from his footsteps," Finch said, a small smirk quirking the corner of his mouth as he slowly backed away from Reese. Another boy appeared, then a girl, then another, half a dozen armed teenagers emerging from the underbrush. Reese swallowed hard, his hand straying toward his gun. "Really, Mr. Reese?" Finch inquired, arching an eyebrow.

"Not them," Reese said, "but maybe you."

Finch smiled, the first warm, honest smile Reese had ever received from him, and Reese let his hand fall back to his side.

"Be careful you don't start something you're not prepared to finish, Harold," Reese said, pulling his cell out of his pocket and tossing it to Finch in surrender.


	13. Bedroom

**Author's Note:** Inspiration for this fic is once again thanks to SeveRemus. The plot-bunnies kind of commandeered it for their own purposes, but I think it's still pretty close to the original idea. Hope you like it. ^_^

Good grief, I hate it when I get too many ideas at once. I've started _another_ multi-chapter fic (this one inspired by the idea of a Reese/Reese pairing. I'm throwing Finch into the mix, too, lol) which I'll post if I ever finish it. I'm concentrating on _Damaged_ though and ought to have another chapter of it to post tomorrow.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

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><p>The rain sheeted down for the third straight day in a row, drumming on Finch's umbrella and nearly drowning out the cacophony of early-morning rush hour traffic around him. He paused on the street corner, glancing around to make sure Detective Fusco wasn't following him again while he waited for the light to change. The first time he'd spotted the not-so-good detective, he'd thought it possible that it was just a coincidence - there <em>was<em> a hot dog stand just a block over, but the second time erased all doubt; Fusco was following him, and there was only one reason why he'd do that. Reese had sent him.

At first, he'd been angry, but after talking to Reese, it became evident that Reese was actually worried, not just curious. After what Reese had been though with the CIA, a certain amount of doubt and suspicion was to be expected, and to be honest, the man had shown him far more trust than Finch felt he had earned. But there were just some things that no one - especially Reese - could know.

Finch was startled from his thoughts as a taxi came zipping around the corner, trying to beat the yellow light before it turned red. It hit a ragged, rain-filled pothole, the cold, gray water splashing up and drenching Finch from the eyebrows down. He stood in shock for a moment, soaked to the skin beneath his umbrella, barely able to see past the water beaded up on his glasses. Then the light changed and the flow of traffic shifted. His lips pressed into a thin line, he limped across the street, ignoring the looks from his fellow pedestrians. Luckily, he was only a couple of blocks from the library.

Once inside, he dumped his dripping umbrella into the small metal trash can standing beside the door, placed there for just that purpose, and struggled out of his wet coat as he made him way up the stairs. At least it was too early for Reese to be there, especially if the operative stopped for coffee and tea, or to grab a box of donuts or muffins, as had been his habit of late. He really needed to stop doing that. Finch's waistline did not appreciate it, or perhaps appreciated it too much.

Hanging the coat on the coat rack, Finch peeled off his jacket and hung it on a different peg, pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket and drying his glasses as he headed for the bathroom. He removed his dripping tie and tossed it in the sink, then closed the lid of the toilet, taking a seat to remove his shoes and socks, where the majority of the water had puddled. Wringing out the thin dress socks, he hung them over the towel bar to dry, then unbuckled his belt and slipped out of his trousers. After emptying his pockets onto the counter, he pulled the clean towels off the bar to make room and hung up the pants, followed by his waistcoat and dress shirt.

Clad in only his damp undershirt and boxers, he hobbled down the hall to the office that he'd converted into a bedroom, complete with a tall, antique armoire containing several changes of clothing, including the various disguises he'd used - sweaters, windbreakers, jeans - and his workout clothes. He ignored those and pulled out another suit, charcoal gray slacks, waistcoat, and jacket and a white dress shirt with burgundy pin-striping. He selected a burgundy tie with a black paisley pattern on it, laying out his clothes on the bed to consider the ensemble. Deeming it satisfactory, he picked up the trousers and sat on the foot of the bed to pull them on.

"Good morning, Finch," said a low, rumbling, and clearly amused voice. Startled, Finch lurched to his feet, one leg half in his trousers. He lost his balance, his foot tangled in his pants as he pitched forward, his body tensing as he braced for a hard impact on the cement floor.

A strong arm wrapped around his chest, halting his fall and returning him to an upright position. Gasping for breath, Finch looked up at Reese. "Thank you."

"It was the least I could do," Reese replied, his hands lingering on Finch's shoulders as he took a small, hesitant step back, only to lean close a moment later, a dance of indecision. Something in his eyes made Finch's heart beat a little quicker, and with a start he realized what was about to happen, realized it and made the conscious decision not to stop it. Reese bowed his head, his breath warm on Finch's face, and Finch lifted his chin, his lips parting as Reese kissed him.

It lasted only a moment, but then, lightning didn't linger, either. Finch stood, silent, hardly daring to breathe, waiting on the thunder, but Reese just drew back slowly, not saying anything. Finch glanced up, startled to find something akin to panic in his operative's eyes, and he reached out, his fingertips brushing against Reese's shirt. Reese froze.

Slowly, Finch slid his hand up Reese's chest, feeling the patter of Reese's heart against his fingertips. Finch never imagined that Reese would be the one who needed reassurance, and he'd spent quite a bit of time contemplating just such a scenario. Reese always seemed so sure, so confident. It was unnerving to see him behaving otherwise, but also comforting, evidence that the man was only human, and for someone who was constantly reminded of his failings and frailties, _human_ was a quality he needed.

Licking suddenly dry lips, Finch hooked his fingers over the edge of Reese's unbuttoned collar, a gentle pull drawing Reese to him again. Finch kissed him, just a brush of lips at first, but when Reese didn't pull away, Finch grew more confident, coaxing Reese's mouth open, sweeping his tongue across Reese's and making him shiver. He repeated the motion, his fingers working on the buttons of Reese's shirt, exposing that smooth, tanned skin, and with a low groan he slipped one hand inside Reese's shirt, lightly dragging his blunt nails down Reese's chest.

Reese gasped and jerked back, his face flushed. "This is payback, isn't it? Revenge for all the teasing."

"And if it's not?"

Reese's gaze shifted to the bed against the far wall, a weighty and meaningful look in his eye. Finch hesitated but a moment before grasping the bottom of his undershirt and peeling it off over his head, one hand adjusting his glasses as he let the shirt fall to the floor.

"I assure you, Mr. Reese, payback is the farthest thing from my mind."

Reese just stared at him for the longest time, and Finch studied him right back, surprised and relieved to find no trace of pity or revulsion in his face. Instead, there was a hunger, a need that would have been frightening if not for the warmth that filled Reese's eyes. Reese stepped toward him.

"Wait," Finch said, and Reese stopped, a look of betrayal on his handsome face. "No, no- I haven't changed my mind," Finch assured him, limping over to the bedside. "I just need to pick up my clothes so they don't get wrinkled."

"I think wrinkles would be the least of your worries," Reese said, back to his usual, confident self as he stepped up behind Finch, wrapping his arms around the smaller man, one hand combing through the soft nest of graying hair on Finch's chest, the other sliding down the front of his boxers. Finch groaned, his eyes sliding shut as he leaned back against Reese.

"Oh, hell," he muttered, and swept his suit off onto the floor.


	14. Bathroom

Finch couldn't take it anymore. He'd thought the jibes at his paranoia were bad, the incessant teasing over his clothes, his tea, his books, his computers, but when it stopped, when smirks turned into looks, when brief touches began to linger, when the interrogative questions turned more personal, he discovered that he couldn't simply ignore it. He caught himself looking, too, leaning into Reese's hand on his shoulder, offering not quite empty answers and less than hollow comments. And it was getting worse.

He arrived at the library to find Reese sitting in his chair, a sight that just a few short months ago would have annoyed him to no end, but on that morning, it was just good to see him in one piece.

"Ears quit ringing yet?" Finch asked as he shrugged out of his overcoat and hung it on the coat rack.

"Mostly," Reese replied. "I was just going over the surveillance from the explosion to see if any of Ramon's gang got away." He started to rise, but Finch motioned for him to stay where he was.

"I need to make some tea," he said, and headed for the adjacent room that served as a makeshift kitchenette. He filled the kettle and placed it on the hotplate, measuring loose-leaf tea into his tea strainer before wandering back out while the water heated to see what Reese had turned up. "Find anything?" he asked, stopping beside the chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Reese glance at him.

"I'm not sure," Reese said. "Maybe you can tell me if this is a shadow or just smoke." He rewound the footage and let it play through, reaching out to point at the corner of the screen. "There, that dark shape..."

Finch leaned closer, his hip giving a twinge, and he placed his hand on Reese's shoulder to steady himself and take some of the weight off his damaged leg. He felt Reese tense and he almost pulled away, but then the muscular shoulder beneath his hand relaxed. Finch hesitated, his heart beating fast, his mouth suddenly dry. He tried to focus on the screen, but all of his senses seemed to be centered on that one hand and the solid warmth beneath it.

"Harold?" Reese said, and Finch closed his eyes, wondering if Reese had any idea of the power that voice had over him, the sultry purr of his name almost enough to shatter his iron restraint. Almost.

"I can't tell," Finch said, lifting his hand and starting to turn away, but he glanced at Reese as he did so and found himself caught in that intense stare, a look in those deep, blue-gray eyes that seemed to reach right into his soul and tear his resolve to shreds. The next thing he knew, his hands were flat against Reese's chest, his lower back aching, his neck and hip giving sharp twinges of pain as he leaned into the man sitting in his chair. The bitter taste of coffee filled his mouth as his lips parted, his tongue sweeping across Reese's, a low groan rising up in his throat as his hands curled into fists, gripping Reese's shirt.

He drew a sharp breath, biting back a whimper as the damaged muscles in his leg protested the unusual strain he was putting on them, but he just shifted his weight and ran a hand up into Reese's hair; it was just as thick and soft as he'd always imagined.

Suddenly, Reese grabbed him by the shoulders and he drew back, confused as Reese pushed him away. "Harold, stop," Reese said, sounding out of breath, and it was like time ground to a halt, each heartbeat echoing in his ears. He couldn't breathe. He stumbled back, his face hot, skin burning.

"I- I beg your pardon," he stuttered, turning away and limping as fast as he could into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and leaning back against the wood. He felt like he was going to throw up. Breathing shallow, he leaned on the sink, turned on the water, and peeled off his glasses, letting them clatter to the counter as he splashed his face, the icy water making him shiver as it ran down under his collar.

What the hell had he done? He'd ruined everything. Reese would never want to work with him now, or if he did, it would be worse than awkward. He needed to apologize, he needed to assure Reese that this would never happen again. He needed to do whatever it took to make things right. He needed Reese too much.

Grabbing his glasses, he patted his face dry on a towel and stepped over to the door, taking a bracing breath as he slipped on his glasses and pulled the door open. He made two observations at nearly the same time, the first being that he'd splashed water on his glasses, tiny drops clinging to the lenses, and the second that Reese was standing just outside the door.

Finch stiffened, instincts he'd developed in junior high kicking in for the first time in decades, and he yanked his glasses back off, shielding them behind his back. A black eye or a bloody nose would heal, but glasses had been expensive to replace. His heart pounding, Finch squared his shoulders, set his jaw, and lifted his chin, ready for whatever Reese thought he deserved.

"Harold..." Reese said, his voice low and deceptively without anger or malice. Finch flinched as Reese lifted his hand, but the taller man just reached past him and took the glasses out of his hand. Reese said nothing as he dried the lenses on the sleeve of his shirt before reaching up and settling the glasses back in place. "Do you really think I could ever hurt you?" Reese asked.

Finch looked up at him, feeling his fear and panic bleed away as he stared into those serene blue eyes. "I...I just...I'm sorry, I acted without thinking. It was a mistake and-"

"I thought you said you'd never lie to me."

Finch blinked, taken aback.

"That wasn't a mistake," Reese said. "I didn't mean for you to _stop_, I could just tell that leaning over me was causing you pain and...that's the last thing I wanted." He took a slow step forward, bowing his head and placing a soft kiss on Finch's lips, his hands sliding beneath Finch's suit jacket and settling at the small of his back. Finch closed his eyes, groaning into Reese's mouth as he reached up to comb his fingers through the thick hair at the nape of Reese's neck.


	15. Park Lawn

**Author's Note:** New episode tonight! I'm so excited! Thanks to Plink42 for the lawn sprinkler idea. I was able to meld it with another little plot-bunny that has been gnawing on my leg for a while. This one is a bit silly and fluffy and I take quite a few liberties, but I think it's fun, lol. I hope you enjoy and thanks for reading and reviewing!

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><p>Finch was already waiting beneath the old oak in the middle of the park when Reese arrived, crossing the wide, manicured lawn to stop a few feet from the recluse. It was late, almost dark, and the park was nearly deserted. For a moment, they just stared at each other.<p>

"Nice place, Finch, but could we get on with things? I was in the middle of doing laundry."

"I beg your pardon? You told me to meet you here."

"No, I didn't. _You_ texted _me_." Finch's eyes widened and Reese realized that they'd been set up. He sprang into action, pushing Finch up against the trunk of the tree and shielding him with his body as he drew his weapon, his sharp gaze sweeping the park. He saw a few people lingering on benches or walking their dogs, but no one suspicious, no one out of place.

"We should get out of here," Finch said, but Reese was reluctant to leave what little cover they had. After a moment, he grabbed Finch's arm.

"Library?"

Finch nodded, his face pale.

"Stay close to me," Reese said, heading across the grass for the west entrance to the park, his steps short and tight as he compensated for Finch's limp, his eyes searching the surrounding buildings, picking out the high places, the open windows.

A sudden noise made him jump and he whipped around, putting himself in front of Finch again, but it was just an automatic sprinkler head popping up out of the ground. He stared at it for a moment, then gave Finch a slight push to get him moving again. They'd taken only a few steps when the sprinklers suddenly came on, pelting both of them with cold, stinging drops. Reese glanced around, but only the lawn in front of them was being watered.

"C'mon," Reese said, pulling Finch back. They headed for the north entrance instead, but Reese froze as more sprinkler heads popped up between them and their destination. He stood, waiting, but nothing happened.

"The system must be malfunctioning," Finch said. They waited another minute, the hair on the back of Reese's neck standing on end at being so exposed, then Reese took a hesitant step forward. Jets of cold water shot out of the sprinklers, hitting Reese in the face and nearly knocking Finch's glasses off. Reese dragged him back, both of them wiping water out of their eyes.

"Tell me that didn't seem strange to you, like someone was watching us and controlling the sprinklers."

"It would _seem_ that way," Finch said, pulling his handkerchief and wiping water drops from his glasses. "But why would anyone do that?"

"They're playing with us," Reese said through his teeth.

"But why?" Finch asked again. "And how? Our phones are encrypted and the city has formidable security measures in place."

"You could do it," Reese said.

"Yes, but-" Finch gave him a startled look. "Is that what you think? Why would I do this?"

"I don't know, Finch, why don't you tell me?"

"John, this is absurd. I'm not doing this."

"Prove it. Let me see your phone."

"No."

"Give me that phone, Finch," Reese said, taking a step toward him and reaching out to search his pockets. Finch tried to shove his hand away and Reese reacted without thinking, bringing his gun up and pressing the barrel against Finch's chest. Finch froze, a look of shock and horror on his face, and Reese felt something inside him curl up into a cold, dead ball.

They both leaped back as the sprinkler at their feet popped up and spurted to life, soaking both of them before shutting off again. Pissed, Reese whipped around, pointing his gun wildly around the park.

"Where the fuck are you?" he shouted. "Why are you doing this? Show yourself, damn it!" The answer came in the form of a beep from his cell phone alerting him to an incoming text, followed half a second later by an echoing beep from Finch's phone. The two men glanced at each other, then fished their cells out of their pockets. Reese brought up the latest text, frowning at the screen.

Asset: Reese, John  
>Status: Lonely<br>Course of Action: Assist Union with Finch, Harold

"Does someone think you're lonely, too?" Reese asked, glancing around the park.

"This isn't possible," Finch whispered. Reese glanced at him, surprised to find his face white as a sheet, his eyes wide.

"What? Do you know who it's from?"

Before Finch could answer, Reese's phone beeped again. He brought up the new text. It was a map of the area, with a location less than two blocks away marked by a little pink heart.

"Where is that?" Reese asked, then realized that Finch hadn't gotten an accompanying text. He held out his phone, letting Finch look. Finch licked his lips and took a shaking breath.

"It's one of my apartments," he said, then turned a slow circle, looking all around the park, but not at ground level. His gaze swept the sky, finally lighting on a light pole with a security camera on it, the staring eye pointed in their direction. "You have to stop this," Finch said, seeming to talk to the camera. "This isn't why I built you."

Finch's phone beeped and he glanced down, a frown creasing his brow. Reese stepped over and leaned close to read what the screen said. Words in red text were appearing and disappearing, words like _kill, hate, murder, pain, death, _and _fear._

"I know," Finch said, his voice soft. "I'm sorry, but...it's what we need you to do."

The red text stopped, the screen going dark. Then it beeped again and a new message appeared.

Asset: Reese, John  
>Sys Admin: Finch, Harold<br>Status: Lonely  
>Course of Action: Kiss<p>

Reese took a step back, his head reeling. "Wait a fucking minute. Is that- that _Machine_ of yours...playing matchmaker?"

"It would appear so," Finch replied. "But why?" A single word began to blink on the screen: _Love_.

Reese suddenly found it hard to breathe. "Your Machine has a screw loose, Finch. It's wrong-"

"It's never wrong," Finch said, not looking at him. "It's designed to analyze human behavior. It must have seen something..." Pictures began to appear on the phone, one after another, alternating between images of Reese looking at Finch, unguarded moments when Finch was distracted by something else, and pictures of Finch doing the same, watching Reese when he wasn't looking. The last picture was an image from that evening, of Reese shielding Finch from an unseen danger. Reese turned away, running a hand back through his wet hair as he tried to think of something to say.

"Finch, I-" He was surprised by a hand grabbing the front of his shirt, and more so by the warm lips that found his. He closed his eyes, returning Finch's kiss until they both drew back out of breath. For a moment, they just stared at each other, then their phones beeped. Reese glanced down at the cell to find a new message.

Asset: Reese, John  
>Status: Happy<br>Course of Action: Love Finch, Harold

"It's not that simple," Finch said in response to his own text.

Reese sighed and put his phone back into his pocket. "Maybe it is. Maybe this time, it is just that simple."

Finch licked his lips. "My place?"

"We really should get out of these wet clothes," Reese said with a crooked grin. "Although we might want to find a drugstore first." The words had barely left his lips before Finch's phone beeped. He looked down at the message, a slight flush pinking his cheeks and ears. Without a word, he held out the phone so Reese could see it. On the screen was an address a block away, with a surveillance still of the inside of a drug store, the camera pointedly focused on the section for condoms and lubricant.


	16. Alley

**Author's Note: **I can't believe it's almost over! I don't know what I'm going to do over the summer - probably write more fanfic, lol. Or maybe I'll get back to writing my own fiction. Anyway, I took quite a few liberties with this fic, including the proper response when someone has a head injury, lol. It makes for good fiction, anyway. I have one more short written for this series, which I'll post Thursday, and then I think I'm going to take a break and try to finish some o the longer stories that I'm working on. I'll probably come back to this one from time to time when the plot-bunnies bite, though.

Thanks so much for reading and reviewing! Hearing your thoughts makes my day. ^_^

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><p>"It's quite late, Mr. Reese," Finch said, lifting his overcoat off the peg and easing into it, the stiffness in his shoulders not lost on Reese. "You should think about getting some rest."<p>

"I'm almost done here," Reese said, sitting behind one of the small, spare tables in Finch's library, the one he'd begrudgingly been allowed to clean his weapons on. The surface was stained with a few spots of grease and gun oil, but he'd tried to be careful. He was just cleaning the last magazine and almost ready to reload the clip and call it a night.

"Don't forget to lock up," Finch said, heading down the corridor.

"Watch your step out there," Reese called after him, aware that such concern would probably not be appreciated, but decidedly not caring. "It was starting to freeze when I got here this evening, and all that snow from yesterday is just so much gray slush now." If Finch replied, he didn't hear it. Wondering if there was really a point in even bothering, he turned back to his gun.

Fifteen minutes later, Reese grabbed his coat and headed out, turning up his collar as he stepped out into the cold, dark alleyway between the buildings. Here, sheltered from the weak winter sun and bypassed by the majority of New York traffic, the snow still lingered on the ground, heavy and wet, with a thin crust over the surface and patches of ice beneath. He nearly lost his footing twice, bracing one hand on the library façade to steady himself.

He was almost to the mouth of the alley when a dark shape lying on the ground caught his eye. For a moment, he thought someone had dumped their trash outside the building, but then his eyes picked out a familiar profile rendered in deathly pale skin. Reese pulled his gun, glancing up and down the alley as he rushed to the fallen man, slipping and sliding in the icy slush. Easing his fingers in under Finch's collar, he felt for a pulse, panic filling his chest as he found the slow flutter beneath Finch's skin.

He checked the alley one more time, then shoved his weapon back under his coat and gathered Finch up in his arms, agonizingly slow, careful steps taking him back to the library. Once inside, he practically ran up the stairs and down the back hall to the small office that had been converted into a makeshift crash room. He started to lay Finch on the bed, but the man's coat, his suit, everything was soaking wet. Placing him gently on the floor, Reese shrugged out of his own coat and began peeling Finch out of his clothes with the same single-minded efficiency that he would use to fieldstrip a rifle. Shoes, socks, trousers came off and were tossed aside, Reese laying his coat over Finch's legs to try to conserve what little body heat he had. The glasses and tie were cast aside quickly, but the jacket, waistcoat, and dress shirt took some finesse.

Lying there in just his undershirt and boxer shorts, Finch looked so pale and still and fragile, Reese had to stop and feel for a pulse again, just to reassure himself that he wasn't already too late. A quick survey of the unconscious man did not reveal any blood, although he had one hell of a knot on the back of his head. A mugging? Surging back into action, Reese lunged to his feet, peeled back the covers on the bed, and lifted Finch off the floor, discovering that a puddle had formed beneath him, getting his underclothes wet as well. Reese hesitated just a moment before laying Finch on the end of the bed and stripping off his shorts.

He tried not to look, to give the man his privacy, but he couldn't help but stare. Long and thick, the scar on Finch's hip ran a jagged line down the outside of his thigh, dark and stiff-looking, sometimes a ridge, sometimes a puckered indentation. No wonder he limped. Tearing his eyes away, he peeled off the wet shirt, dropped it to the floor, and shifted Finch into the middle of the bed, pulling the covers up over him.

Reese stood, shivering in his own clothes, now wet from carrying Finch, and stared down at the man, as if he could will him to wake. When Finch didn't stir, Reese ran a hand back through his own hair and glanced around the room. Logic said he needed to wrap Finch up and get him to a hospital - he surely had hypothermia, possibly a concussion, which could mean swelling or bleeding in his brain - but Finch was such a private man. If there was nothing wrong...

He'd give him an hour. That seemed reasonable. Unless there was a change in his heartbeat or breathing. And if he- _when_ he woke up, he'd need something to drink, some hot tea. That would warm him up. Reese hurried down the hall, into the lounge area, and filled Finch's kettle, placing it on the hotplate to boil. Returning to Finch's room, he checked his pulse again, his skin still so deathly cold. Reese turned up the thermostat, but it just wasn't warming the room fast enough. Finch needed to get warm _now_.

Survival training kicked in and Reese stripped off his damp clothes without a second thought, down to his underwear, and slid in under the covers with Finch. Careful not to jostle his neck or press against his damaged hip, Reese placed his body over Finch's, holding himself up on his knees and elbows, applying just enough weight to the unconscious man to convey his warmth into the frozen flesh beneath him. He pressed his cheek against Finch's, letting his warm breath fall into the crook of Finch's neck, then shifted to the other side and did the same. Anything to warm him up.

Sliding his hands beneath Finch's back, Reese rubbed his palms up and down, over skin both smooth and scarred. It was evident that Finch had survived something truly terrible, something that probably would have killed a lesser man. So there was no way a little hypothermia was going to stop him.

"C'mon, Harold, wake up," Reese whispered. He glanced over at the clock on the wall, watching the hour he'd given Finch be eaten up. He shifted positions, rubbing his hand up and down Finch's chest, trying to rub the life back into him. His color did seem better, the blue leaving his lips and a faint pinkness returning to his cheeks. Reese stopped and checked his pulse again, letting out a relieved breath to feel it beat determinedly against his fingertips. Now, if he'd just open his eyes.

Shifting his weight back to both forearms, Reese carefully insinuated one of his legs in between Finch's, shivering as those cold thighs pressed against either side of his. He slid his arms beneath Finch again, holding him close as he buried his face against the side of Finch's neck, breathing hard on the carotid artery to warm the blood going to his head.

Reese jumped as Finch took a sudden, noisy breath, his entire body stiffening in Reese's arms. Raising his head, Reese looked down at him, relieved to find his eyes open. "Oh, thank God, you scared the hell out of me-"

"Stop it!" Finch shouted, and Reese drew back, startled as Finch shoved at him, trying to scramble away, a look of absolute panic in his eyes. "Don't touch me!"

Frowning, Reese climbed off the bed as Finch nearly fell off the opposite side, pulling the blankets off and wrapping them around himself. "Harold, it's all right," Reese said. "It's just me. It's John." That was the only explanation he could think of, that Finch hadn't realized it was him. Understandable, considering he had a head injury and wasn't wearing his glasses. Speaking of which...Reese stooped and picked them up off the floor, holding them out as he stepped toward Finch.

"Stay back!"

"Jesus, Harold, would you calm down? What the hell's the matter with you?"

"Calm down? _Calm down?_ You son-of-a-bitch, I trusted you!"

Angry and confused and more than a little hurt, Reese tossed Finch's glasses down onto the bed between them. "I didn't _do_ anything to you," he said, grabbing up his clothes and stalking toward the door. "Except for save you life." He left, slamming the door behind him. Damned paranoid head-case.

Storming into the central hub of the library, he dropped his clothes into Finch's chair, grabbed his trousers, and pulled them on, ignoring the cold, wet material that chafed against his skin. He struggled into his shirt and pulled his shoes on, stuffing his socks into his pocket in favor of getting the hell out of there as quickly as possible. Scooping up his sport coat and overcoat, he headed for the stairs.

A high, thin whistle reached his ear and he paused, listening to the shriek of the kettle. His first thought was go dump the kettle into the sink and let Finch heat up his own damn water, but he didn't like the way it made him feel, like he had something cold and slimy in the pit of his stomach. He turned and made his way into the lounge, turning off the hotplate and staring at the steaming kettle for a moment before dropping his coats onto the back of the nearby sofa.

As the anger bled out of him, that left only confusion and hurt, and a nagging sense of worry. That was strange behavior, even for Finch, but whether it was a result of the head injury or something else, Reese didn't know. And probably never would, knowing Finch. Mr. Privacy. But regardless, the man was still his boss - and his friend, whether Finch liked it or not - and his core temperature had to still be dangerously low.

Reese measured the loose leaf tea into the tea strainer, wondering why the man couldn't just buy teabags like everyone else, and slowly poured the steaming water through the aromatic leaves, letting it steep for a minute before setting the strainer aside and picking up the mug. He didn't expect Finch to let him back into the room - he wasn't even going to try - but he could leave the mug outside the door.

Turning, he was surprised to find a very distraught-looking Finch hesitating in the doorway, still wrapped in his blankets. He was holding his glasses in the hand that clutched at the blanket, his gaze downcast, as though he didn't want to - or couldn't - look at Reese.

"I slipped in the snow," Finch said, a distant, factual quality in his trembling voice. "I think I hit my head on the side of the building. Thank you for helping me and I'm sorry for what I said and did."

"It's all right," Reese said, taking a slow step toward him, relieved when Finch didn't tense or draw away from him. He held out the mug of tea. "You should drink this. I'm sure you're still freezing."

"Yes; I can't stop shivering." He extended his empty hand from beneath the blanket, his shaking obvious as he took the mug and raised it to his lips. He took a sip, making a bitter face before quickly schooling his features. "Thank you."

"I think I forgot the sugar," Reese said, reaching out to take the mug back.

"No, it's fine," Finch said with a small shake of his head. "It's hot - that's all that matters."

An awkward silence descended between them as Reese searched for something to say. "You should probably go lie back down," he said finally. "You might have a concussion." He frowned as a thought occurred to him. "People with head injuries should be watched closely for twenty-four hours. Maybe you should go to a hospital-"

"No. No hospitals."

That was what Reese had figured. "Do you have someone who can check on you?"

Finch stared down into his tea, his glasses still in his other hand. "You're all I have," he whispered, startling Reese with the confession. But Finch wasn't finished. "In college, I was almost the victim of a sexual assault. I was at a party and this guy that I had a bit of an infatuation with brought me a beer and started talking to me. I was underage and I didn't like the taste of it, but I wanted him to like me, so I drank it. And he got me another. And another. I started to feel sick and I went to find a bathroom. I think I passed out. I woke up in a strange bed with him on top of me, trying to- trying to-"

Finch took a shuddering breath, his voice shaking so much that he had to stop. After a moment, he continued, "I told him to stop, I tried to push him off, but he was tall and strong and athletic and I was weak and helpless. I yelled for help, but I didn't really know anyone at the party that well, and he quickly covered my mouth. I thought...Luckily, someone heard and he came in and pulled the guy off of me."

Reese closed his eyes, a weight in his chest making it hard to breathe. "Harold, I'm so sorry..."

"It's all right, John," Finch said, still not looking at him. "You don't need to apologize; you didn't do anything wrong. I was just trying to explain why I acted like I did, because you _didn't_ do anything and I'm sorry that I yelled at you, that I thought, for even a moment, that you would do something like that, because I _do_ trust you and- and I don't want to discourage you from getting into bed with me in the future if you're ever so inclined." He gave his tea a startled look, as though he hadn't meant to say the words out loud.

Reese didn't say anything, he just stood there regarding him, so small and pale and fragile, wrapped in his blanket and clutching his glasses and tea. Reese stepped close to him and reached out, gently taking the glasses out of his hand. Without a word, he dried the lingering water spots from the lenses and settled them in place on Finch's face, his fingers tentatively brushing along Finch's jaw, trying to coax his head up. After a moment, Finch looked up, pale blue eyes meeting Reese's gray ones.

"I have a feeling that's just the head injury talking, so I'm going to do this before you come to your senses," Reese said with a small, crooked smile. He leaned closer, stopping before their lips touched, giving Finch the chance to pull away if this wasn't what he wanted, too. Instead, cold, trembling lips pressed against his own and his eyes slid shut, his chest so full he could hardly breathe.

After a moment, Reese drew back. "All right, now back to bed," he said, his lips tingling. "I'll wake you every couple of hours to make sure you haven't slipped into a coma."

Finch didn't answer, his just took a long drink of his tea, almost draining the mug before setting it down on the counter. "Well, as long as you're going to be here anyway," Finch said, "you might as well come keep me warm." Reese raised his eyebrows, but didn't resist as Finch reached out and took his hand, leading him down the hall and into the bedroom.


	17. Graveyard

**Author's Note: ***Sigh* The end is finally here. For a while, anyway, lol. This one is short and bittersweet, and maybe a little sad. And maybe the best way things could end, if they had to. Thanks for reading and reviewing and look for another chapter of _Damaged_ tomorrow.

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><p>Reese walked through the rain, no umbrella, not even seeming to care that he was soaked to the skin. In one hand, he clutched a wrinkled and dripping sheet of paper, in the other, a broken pair of glasses. He stopped before a small, marble headstone inscribed with a name and date, no flowery epitaphs, no <em>beloved friend<em>. Just a name, and not even the correct one for the man who lay buried beneath.

"I got the letter from your lawyer," Reese said to the stone, his voice quiet, rough, as though he'd been drinking again, or crying. Maybe both. "I appreciate the money and the new identity, but…I thought…I hoped you would have trusted me with access to your Machine. I don't know if I could have done it without you, but I'd have died trying…" He looked down at the paper in his hand. "Maybe that's why you didn't. Maybe this is your way of saving one last life, one last irrelevant person.

"I never said it, but I should have. Every day, I should have told you how grateful I was, not for the job, not for giving me a purpose, or for saving my life, but for being my friend. You will be missed, Harold."

He reached out, placing the broken glasses on top of the tombstone, the rain beading up on the lenses. Maybe it was rain that he wiped from his eyes, maybe it was tears. He turned and walked away, got into his car, and drove off.

Seated in the back of a black town car, the man who had been Harold Finch took the earpiece out of his ear and sighed. He hadn't imagined it would hurt this bad, leaving Reese behind, letting him go, setting him free, but it was what had to be done.

He lowered the privacy screen. "We can go now," he told the driver. He had a meeting with Reese's replacement, and as always, there were more numbers to save.


	18. Restaurant

**Author's Note:** Happy Valentine's Day!

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><p>Finch sat in the quiet restaurant, his fingers absently smoothing the crease in the linen tablecloth as he watched the flame dancing within the crystal candle holder. This was such a bad idea. Such a bad, bad, stupid, irresponsible idea. He glanced at his watch, then toward the door, then picked up his glass of water, the ice clinking inside as he his hand trembled. What the hell was thinking?<p>

He cleared his throat, his mouth dry in a way that no amount of imported ice water could fix, and licked his lips as he stared down at the menu without really looking at it. He'd been contemplating this action for weeks, but now that he was _there_, and Reese was on his way, he had no idea of what he was going to say.

"Mr. Reese, I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you here this evening," he said under his breath, then shook his head. That sounded like he was going to fire him. "Reese, I- John, I thought- Thank you for joining me, John, I was hoping-" He sighed and peeled off his glasses, rubbing at the headache that was starting to form between his eyes. "John, I'm in love with you. Take me home and make love to me." He laughed, a soft, bitter sound. This was so stupid.

He put his glasses back on and started to slide out of the booth, his nerve failing him...or perhaps his common sense kicking in. He would text Reese and tell him something had come up, apologize, and forget this moronic idea. It was a good plan, until he glanced up and saw Reese crossing the restaurant toward him, absently adjusting the cobalt blue tie that Finch had bought for him and left in the library, next to the address for the restaurant.

"Sorry I'm late," Reese said, sliding into the semi-circular booth and sitting across from Finch. "Traffic was a nightmare, every couple in the city heading out to dinner. But you probably didn't realize that it was Valentine's Day, did you, Harold?" He glanced around the restaurant, then back at Finch, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "People probably think we're on a date."

Finch felt his face flush, the room almost unbearably hot all of a sudden. "John, I didn't forget what day it was. I-"

"Oh? Is that our cover, then? A gay couple?" He shifted around the table, sliding up against Finch's side and resting his arm along the back of the booth, behind Finch's shoulders, pressing the outside of their legs together from hip to knee. He leaned close, his proximity making Finch's heart pound. "What's the plan, Harold? Is it a number, or an asset?"

Finch moistened his dry lips. "It- it's neither, Mr. Reese-"

"Then why are we here, Finch?" Reese said with a hint of exasperation as he picked up his glass of water. "I'm sure there's someone out there who could have put this reservation to better use than us. It's not like either of us is going to get lucky tonight."

"You might if you'd just stop interrupting me," Finch said as Reese took a drink. "I want you, John." Without thinking, he put his hand on Reese's thigh, just to make his intentions clear.

Reese jumped like he'd been stuck with a pin, spraying water all over the table, and all over Finch. The restaurant went silent and Finch felt his face heat up again. He couldn't really see through the water drops on his glasses, but he could imagine all the other patrons craning their necks to see what the noise was about.

He dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded hundred dollar bill, laying it on the table as he slid out of the booth. "My mistake, Mr. Reese," he said, hobbling toward the exit as fast as he could. This had to be the worst idea he'd ever hard, the biggest mistake he'd ever made. It would be a miracle if Reese even answered his phone the next time there was a number. More likely, Finch would find his loft empty, his phone left behind, him and Bear gone, vanished. And all because of fucking _Valentine's Day_.

Outside, he turned, threading his way through the strolling pedestrians out for an evening walk after dinner or a movie, couples holding hands and gazing adoringly at each other. He wanted to grab them, shake them, shout at them, tell them that it was all a chemically induced euphoria, a biological high, an illusion, a lie. Love was not real, it was just another way for people to make themselves look stupid.

"Finch?"

He heard Reese call his name, but he did not slow, did not turn. He could never face the man again.

"Finch. Harold. Hey!"

Finch stiffened as Reese grabbed him by the arm and spun him around. He opened his mouth to apologize, to beg Reese to just forget it, but found his words stopped by Reese's lips crashing against his own. Hands cupped his cheeks, his eyes sliding shut as Reese kissed him, deep and slow, their tongues touching, stroking, exploring each other's mouths, leaving him light-headed and out of breath.

Reese drew back, his face flushed. "Sorry about in there," he said, taking Finch's glasses and drying them on his sleeve. "You just caught me by surprise. I never imagined you might feel the same way about me that I do about you."

Finch took back his glasses, ignoring the lingering smears on the lenses, so he could make sure Reese wasn't laughing at him. He wasn't, but that didn't mean his words weren't a joke. "Mr. Reese, if this is some kind of game to you-"

Reese kissed him again, hands sliding under his jacket, strong arms wrapping around him, pulling him close, Reese's tongue sliding across his, skilled, determined lips moving against his own. "Does this feel like a game?" Reese asked between long, slow kisses. "Damn it, Harold - I love you. I have for...it feels like forever. But I never thought _you_ would want _me_."

"I do," Finch confessed. "I have for...forever. And I love you, too."

"I know," Reese said, finally drawing back. He reached down and took Finch's hand, giving it a squeeze as he tossed his head in the direction of the restaurant. "C'mon, let's go have dinner. I asked the maitre d' to hold our table."

"After the scene we just made? No," Finch said shaking his head. "I can't go back in there. I'll have to sell the place-"

Reese laughed. "Why am I not surprised? It explains how you got reservations, though. Now come on, no one cares if we made a scene. I'm sure us holding hands and making out while we wait for our food will cause them to forget it completely."

"We're not making out," Finch said firmly, his steps reluctant as he allowed Reese to lead him back to the restaurant. "Did you hear me, Mr. Reese? John?"

Reese just glanced back and gave him a crooked grin.


End file.
